Free The Truth by Michael Palin

relieved to see him. Stiffly she embarked on the introductions. Her companion rose from the table, smiling amiably, and grasped Mabbut’s hand before lapsing back into his seat. He beckoned Mabbut to do the same, with a gesture of elegant largesse, as if he owned the place.
    ‘Rex owns the place,’ said Krystyna.
    Rex gave a self-deprecating smile.
    ‘Actually it was opened by a Ukrainian. Frightful crook. Went belly up a year ago so we took it over. We came up with the name Gaston Quartz and it’s taken off. Chef’s from Inverness.’
    Mabbut looked dubiously at the surrounding gloom.
    ‘It picks up. The high-rollers like to eat late. Glass of champagne?’
    Before Mabbut could refuse, he became aware of activity, of dark figures emerging from the shadows, briefly catching the light, then disappearing again. Somewhere a door opened and closed with the merest sigh.
    Krystyna looked tired. Oddly enough what little light there was around the table shone obliquely on her, accentuating the Madonna-like combination of oval face, long straight dark hair with touches of grey, high cheekbones and the wide, thin-lipped mouth he knew so well.
    ‘Rex and I are, hmm,’ she had to clear her throat before carrying on, ‘going to New York on Sunday.’
    From nowhere a crisply hissing champagne flute appeared beside him, and there was a momentary lull as the other glasses were refilled around the table. Rex Naismith seemed quite unembarrassed by the situation. He beamed at Mabbut, thanked the waiter and raised his glass.
    ‘Cheers!’
    Mabbut mumbled. Krystyna barely raised her glass.
    Rex drank appreciatively, rolling the champagne round his mouth before setting down his glass.
    ‘Krystyna tells me you’re a writer. I admire anyone who can write. I come up with the odd speech or two but not the imaginative stuff.’
    Like a chess player before a big game, Mabbut had rehearsed his moves on the way there, but the one thing he hadn’t prepared for was amiability. He nodded, intending to look blank, but it came out as surly.
    ‘What the fuck are you doing with my wife?’ is what he really wanted to say.
    ‘It’s never easy,’ is what he actually said.
    ‘I know quite a few chaps who are harbouring little masterpieces. And of course dear old Cloudesley Marshall actually had one published. It was a thriller, very James Bond. Lots of sex. Which is something one wouldn’t normally associate with Cloudesley. He used to run the Boy Scouts.’
    Mabbut felt like a rabbit caught in headlights. Bereft of a strategy to make them talk about what they should surely be talking about,he could only listen. Krystyna, Polish and practical, took refuge in arrangements.
    ‘We shall be in New York for some time. Then we go to Ottawa.’
    Rex grimaced.
    ‘Frightful place. Bloody cold and all the buildings look like elephant turds. But we’re supposed to be nice to Canada these days. All sorts of things brewing. Know about the Athabasca tar sands?’
    Mabbut nodded. Here was something he did know about. Once.
    ‘I was an energy correspondent.’
    ‘Well then, you probably know far better than me what’s going on there. Millions of dollars being spent buggering up the place, environmentalists up in arms, and quite rightly too, but they are passing an awful lot of business our way. We still have a lot of mining expertise and thankfully it’s appreciated out there. Anyway, I have to go and make sure we’re being nice to everybody and not letting Hamish Melville do the rain dance on them.’
    Mabbut looked up sharply.
    ‘Hamish Melville? How does he come into it?’
    ‘Well, you know Hamish. Everyone knows Hamish. If there’s a pie, his finger will be in it somewhere.’
    Krystyna frowned and asked, ‘Isn’t he some kind of unofficial ambassador? Goes where the government daren’t go?’
    Rex raised his eyebrows.
    ‘Oh, Hamish is as Hamish is portrayed. A super chap, but he doesn’t always have the bigger picture in mind.’
    ‘How